“Jesus, you’re not going to let me live that shit down, are you? I told you I’d pay you back.”
“I’d much rather you told me the truth about what’s going on and why you’re really here,” I counter, shoveling another forkful of unnaturally-orange gooey, cheesy noodles in my mouth.
“I told you I got it, sis,” he says, as he grabs his dinner and walks away from me, flopping down on the couch. “Things are a little rocky right now, but I’m working on it. I just need to crash here for a few days.”
“What happened to your place? Why can’t you stay there?”
“I miss the view,” he replies sarcastically.
“Who did you borrow money from, Dante?” I ask outright, sick of dancing around the real issue.
He says nothing for a long moment, seemingly intent on eating his dinner. “You paid the light bill,” he remarks after the lapse of silence, completely disregarding my previous inquiry.
“Yeah…I made a payment on Thursday.”
Thursday morning before first bell, I called and recounted some sob story to the collections representative. I was surprised they didn’t know my voice by now considering how many times I’ve had to call to get on their payment plan. My mother received help from the government so I guess that’s why they were so lenient.
“I’m almost afraid to ask how you’re able to swing these bills and still have money left over to bail my ass out every time, Lacey.” He is looking at me now, scrutinizing me with light green eyes as if waiting for the neon hooker light to flash across my forehead. I toss my finished cup in the trash bin and wash my fork in the nearby sink.
“So then don’t.”
He frowns. “Cece.”
“Is this really a conversation you want to have, Dante?” I ask pointedly, meeting his probing gaze dead-on. I’m not going to make it easy for him. If he really wants to know how I make my money then he is going to have to ask me directly.
“I just know you ain’t working a minimum-wage job to get the sort of money you’re making. But I know you, I know how hard you hustle to get yours, Lacey. All I’m asking is for a chance to do the same.” He wussies out like I knew he would. He really didn’t want to know. It was easier for him to remain ignorant to my reality, to paint me in a light of the hardworking sister while overlooking exactly what it was I did. The sort of hard work that consisted of me selling a little piece of myself each and every time I stepped out of this apartment. The truth was there for him to see, but he refused to acknowledge its existence. I almost hate admitting that it hurts. I should’ve known better than to expect anything from Dante.
***
Sunday comes and goes in a blur of homework that I am left in peace to finish because Dante left earlier in the morning with only an inaudible good-bye as he walked out the door. I stay in my room for the day with the door securely locked, coming out only when I need to use the bathroom or grab something to eat. And even then, my trusty pocketknife is never too far out of my reach. The only reason I leave the apartment later in the afternoon is to do some much needed laundry in the communal Laundromat in the building’s basement. Two hours later, I head back up with a basket of freshly washed and neatly folded clothes. The sheets and blanket Dante had defiled with that random girl last night were washed in extremely hot water and dried on the hottest setting.
Much later, I’m lounging in bed, showered and tucked beneath a still-warm blanket that smells of spring flowers from my fabric softener, making me feel happy and comforted. My eyes are trained on my solitary window, watching the thick flurry of snow blowing against the black night sky illuminated only by flickering orange street lamps. It’s the only beautiful thing in this neighborhood and it’s hypnotic, lulling me into that slow, thick, heavy space between wakefulness and sleep. My eyes are almost closed, sleep is on the fringes of my shuttered vision when the loud vibration of my phone yanks me back to awareness and I’m searching blindly across the top of my bed to shut it off. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the brightness of the screen and I have to scrunch my eyes close a few times before I can look at it without squinting. I automatically check to see who it is, stifling a long yawn. It’s someone’s dick pic. Not really an impressive dick pic, either.
From: PussyDestroyer25
You like what you see, sexy? Send me an ass pic.
Not fucking likely. I can’t hit the delete button quick enough. I can’t deal with the weirdness this late at night so I sign out of my email and check my text messages instead. Tyler has left me four.
Where are you at? Come over.
Why are you not answering my texts?
What’s going on with you?
You mad at me or something?
I’m not mad, just been distracted. I didn’t get to see him Thursday or Friday because we didn’t have media class and as far as seeing each other during lunch period, he had third block while I had first on both days. So we haven’t seen each other since Wednesday when I ran out on him. The few texts he’d shot me had been answered with short replies. And it isn’t so much that I don’t want to talk to him. I think it has more to do with what he’d told me the last time we’d been together. About him sleeping with Heather. I still haven’t properly processed that bombshell, and maybe on some subconscious level not answering his texts is just me protecting myself from the potential mess this situation could end up being. Was I ready to lose my one and only friend for the sake of self-preservation? It’s a question that does not have an immediate answer.
Been busy.
We’ll talk tomorrow?
It takes him two minutes to reply.
Yeah…I guess…
I wait to see if there’s more. Five minutes crawls to ten and ten to fifteen and fifteen to thirty and soon, it’s an hour later and I stop expecting anything. He’s probably angry. His anger will be gone by tomorrow. Tyler isn’t the sort to hold onto grudges for too long. At least I hope not. Sleep doesn’t take too long to come back and soon my concerns about Tyler and everything else in my mind fades to nothing.
Chapter Eight
Lacey
Monday morning doesn’t start off on a good foot, and as I race down the snow-covered sidewalk that has yet to be plowed, hurrying to catch a bus boarding its last rider, I know it’s going to be one of those days. The bus door closes as it disengages from the sidewalk, ready to drive away. I add what little burst I can to my sprinting legs to close in on that small distance and it takes me banging on the windows like a crazed person before the bus stops once again. The bus driver glares at me when I board, but I’m too winded to even care. I do manage a gasping “thank you” though, before positioning myself at the front. It’s the only place I can fit considering the bus is packed tighter than a can of sardines. I’m barely standing behind the yellow line that separates the riders from the driver.
What would’ve normally been a twenty minute ride takes nearly an hour because traffic is a complete cluster-fuck and every Bostonian driver has seemingly forgotten how to drive on salted roads. And it’s right around this point, five minutes into first-period biology and I’m still standing on this god awful bus that smells like a cocktail of death, that I truly despise my brother. I wasn’t sure whether he came back from his outing yesterday but I woke up this morning to find myself alone again. Checking our mother’s messy room had revealed no hint of whether he’d come home and crashed in her room or not.
It hadn’t mattered anyway, the only thing I’d cared about was the car, which he’d taken the day before, leaving me to once again fend for myself. I wouldn’t have minded the commute on a regular day, but considering I had a biology test that I was now missing, made it worse. Riverdale High is a ten minute walk from the bus stop, sprinting makes it seven. The school’s front doors automatically lock after first bell so I have to ring the buzzer to the main office in order for them to let me in, which meant I would now have to report to the principal’s office for a tardy slip. Fuck and fuck. The silver lining is that Princ
ipal Wexler is nice, he’s also everything a child might imagine Santa Clause to look like. Long, perfectly-trimmed white beard, shock-white hair, jolly in the face, and round in the middle.
“Lacey,” he greets with a smile when I enter his office. It amazes me that he can remember the names of every student in the school. “What can I do for you?” He sets his pen down on the paperwork that had his attention before I walked in and looks at me.
“I need a tardy slip.”
He nods, reaches over to the thick pad of pink cards on his desk and rips one off. “Any particular reason why you’re tardy?”
“My brother took my car,” I say, without further detail, even managing to produce a smile that he returns with a wider one of his own.
“Well, I guess that would do it.” He stands from behind his desk to hand me the slip, “But let’s not make a habit of it.”
“Of course, Mr. Wexler, it won’t happen again.” I’m out the door before any more words can be exchanged and steadily make my way to what is left of bio class.
It takes some good bullshit to get Mr. Baker to let me take the make-up exam after school, it also helps that I’m one of his favorite students. I have a few minutes left in American History when I’m paged to the guidance office.
“I’ve looked in to those scholarships like you asked and I have found several you might be interested in,” Ms. Lincoln says, when I enter her office and take a seat across from her on her too cluttered desk. She hands me a manila folder that I open to find several scholarships’ information inside, including applications. “Now, like I’ve told you at your junior year assessment, your 4.0 GPA is amazing and it’ll get you into some good schools. But in order for you to grab the attention of the Ivy Leagues, you need much more than just a great GPA.” She looks up from her computer screen, “Have you joined any school clubs?”
“I’m in High Honors Society,” I say, rather weakly, fully aware that isn’t enough.
The look she gives me relays the same thing. “Lacey, you have such unimaginable potential, you’re so bright. I would hate to see you get rejected because you’re not social enough. I know you haven’t had the easiest time these last four years, but college is going to be so much more different than high school. They’ll appreciate your intelligence, they’ll nurture it, and you’ll become someone amazing. But until then, you’re going to have to work with me to get you there.”
Her impassioned speech is touching. It’s odd though. Having someone rooting for me, trying to help me succeed…I don’t have too much of that in my life. I can’t be too surprised because this was how Ms. Lincoln was with everyone. She is the eternal optimist. I bet she was a cheerleader in high school. “Is there anything that might interest you? There’s Debate Club, the Science Club, Habitat for Humanity, Yearbook, and Drama Club. Mr. Thatcher is looking for a few girls to help with costumes for the upcoming school play.”
“I bet he is,” I murmur dryly under my breath, fidgeting with the loose black thread on my sweater.
“Pardon?”
I shake my head, “Nothing. I…I’ll do Yearbook.”
“You’ll need another one, might I suggest Prom Committee? They need all the help they can get.”
I grimace. “Then I guess I’ll do Prom Committee, too.” One of the reasons why I haven’t joined any school clubs, even though I know it’s going to give me an advantage with colleges, is because I don’t want it to interfere with me making money. But if I make money for college and don’t actually get into a college then that would defeat the purpose.
I watch as she flips through a stack of folders on her desk in search of something. Her triumphant “aha” signals that she’s found it. “Here.” She hands me the piece of paper. “You’re not supposed to get that until next week, but I think it’s safe to say you did very well your first semester.”
My eyes trail over my report card. There’s A’s across the board except for the B in drama class and the note beside it that comments, “Needs more class participation.” There isn’t a note next to the B+ in physics, because Mrs. Thatcher is a cunt. It fucking irritates me that these two are taking their personal vendettas out on my grades. I don’t let Ms. Lincoln in on my irritation. It wouldn’t matter if I told her anyway. There was no proof and it would be my word against theirs, and it wouldn’t take a genius to figure out the outcome of that scenario.
I stay in Ms. Lincoln’s office for a little bit longer before she gives me a hall pass for French class. I search for Tyler during first block lunch and find him sitting with a few guys toward the back end of the cafeteria. Luckily for me, Heather and her crowd are on the opposite end, occupied by whatever currently has their world going round. As long as I’m not their target, I’m good. I make my way over to Tyler’s table, a Saran wrapped BLT sandwich in one hand and a can of Coke in the other. There are four guys in total and they’re all talking at once, very loudly, trying to speak over each other, so they don’t notice me right away.
“Man, get the fuck out of here, you fucking nutted on that handrail. Everyone saw you, bro!”
“Screw you, asshole, I nailed that shit!” the guy seated closest to Tyler, Declan I think his name is, protests, making everyone laugh and it’s only then that they finally notice me. The table falls silent for a good minute before Declan breaks the ice with a cock of his head and a, “Sup, Lacey?” in my direction.
“Hey.”
“Looking for a place to sit? I got a nice seat right here, babe.” He gestures to his lap and waggles his eyebrows suggestively.
“Man, fuck you,” Tyler says, with a punch to Declan’s arm, “move the fuck over so she can sit down.”
“All right, man, you don’t need to get violent,” Declan grumbles, rubbing his arm as he stands up to move his chair. “I didn’t realize she was your girl.”
Everyone else shuffles around too, making room for the empty chair Tyler drags over from another less crowded table. “Sit,” he says to me, and when I do, he grabs my Coke can and pops it open. “She’s not my girl, dipshit, she’s a friend.”
And that I guess is Tyler’s way of forgiving me for not being a good friend to him. This is the first time I’ve ever sat with his group of friends since I’ve known him. He’s always been the one to look for me, search me out in the crowd to sit at my solitary table. I’ve never noticed that until now either.
“You coming over tonight?” he asks, swinging an arm across my shoulder as we head down the packed hallway, making a steady trek to media class.
“Maybe.” I was informed by Ms. Lincoln that Prom Committee had a meeting today after-school that I needed to attend and then I had my SAT classes soon after that. “I joined Prom Committee.” I don’t have to wait too long for the bark of laughter.
“You’re shitting me?” He pulls away slightly to look at me with a wide grin on his face and laughter still dances in his eyes. “You, Lacey Barnes, on the prom committee? Who’d you kill?”
“It’s for college, asshat,” I shove him with my shoulder, “some of us don’t have rich parents to pay our way.”
“May and Donald aren’t paying for shit. I’m taking a year off after I graduate.”
I snort. “To do what, further your recreational enterprise?”
His shit-eating grin is infectious. “Supply and demand, Lace, Economics 101. It’s the foundation of our beautiful country.”
I smile and roll my eyes, “You’re so full of shit, Ty.”
“Yeah, but at least I’m not on the fucking prom committee. God, I’d fucking kill myself.” He jeers, taken once again by another bout of laughter that rightfully garners stares.
“There’s an idea,” I murmur without much bite and smile. It’s a smile that doesn’t last too long when we inevitably run into Heather. It’s like she knows when I’m happy and makes it a point to appear at that exact moment to rain on my parade. She’s like the Wicked Witch of the West, a little less green but filled with the same amount of animosity and backed by her own se
t of pretty and primed minions ready to do her bidding.
“Careful, Tyler…” she says, as she walks by us, “you might catch something.”
“If I did, we both know it wouldn’t be from her,” he fires back, and the comment puts a halt in her step for a minor second before she continues on like she hadn’t heard.
I laugh, I can’t help it. “Fucking genius, Ty.”
Guess I don’t have to worry about where his loyalties lie. If I had any doubts, they were just now put to rest. Thank God.
The rest of the day is pretty easy to get through after that priceless moment. Study hall is in the library today and like everything else at Riverdale High, the library is huge. There are towering bookshelves that are rarely used now since the convenience of computers in the media room provided information so much quicker and easier. There aren’t too many students in the library itself, the few that are there are gathered at one of the rectangular, oak tables that lines the center aisle between the standing bookshelves. I head to the far back where not too many venture, it’s a lot quieter. The cubicle study areas are private, isolated. Just the way I like it.
Study hall is my last class of the day so it takes me all the way to last bell before I put away my current reading material for lit class and gather my things to head to the science wing for my make-up bio test. Mr. Baker’s class smells like antiseptic and formaldehyde, but it’s a scent you eventually get used to. He hands me the stapled test. It’s three sheets, eighty multiple choice questions on genetics. I set my bag on the floor and hop on the stool behind one of the twelve thick, black slab tables with attached sinks at the edges. I’m done in twenty minutes but I double-check my answers because the last question had me second-guessing myself. I stand, pick my bag up from the floor and walk to the front of the classroom to put the test down at his desk.
“It’s not like you to miss class, Ms. Barnes,” he states, looking up from grading the tests in front of him. “Let’s not make it a habit.”
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